


But It Pours

by biscuitsy



Series: The London Excursion [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A little bit of pining, M/M, Pre-Relationship, also a bomb, but everything's okay mostly, hanzo is probably touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitsy/pseuds/biscuitsy
Summary: London, as it turned out, was a perpetually overcast and comically rain-sodden capital city. McCree was aware of the stereotypes about English weather, heard it secondhand from Lena many a time, and every time he returned to the English capital he was awestruck at how unendingly wet the city always was. Lena had joked about issuing Overwatch-branded ‘brollies’ to anyone going on a London mission, and McCree was starting to believe it might not have been a terrible call.At least his partner seemed to thrive in stormy weather. McCree looked to Hanzo as they walked, inconspicuous as a samurai and a cowboy could be, over Hungerford Bridge toward their mark- a bomb threat, off all things. Chin held high and eyes forward, the elder Shimada paid no mind to the raindrops that found their way inside his hood and collected on his tidy beard. His expression was regal as ever, even when hidden beneath the shade of a hoodie, and if he was anxious about walking towards a potential bomb the archer did not show it.





	But It Pours

London, as it turned out, was a perpetually overcast and comically rain-sodden capital city. McCree was aware of the stereotypes about English weather, heard it secondhand from Lena many a time, and every time he returned to the English capital he was awestruck at how unendingly wet the city always was. Lena had joked about issuing Overwatch-branded ‘brollies’ to anyone going on a London mission, and McCree was starting to believe it might not have been a terrible call.

 

At least his partner seemed to thrive in stormy weather. McCree looked to Hanzo as they walked, inconspicuous as a samurai and a cowboy could be, over Hungerford Bridge toward their mark- a bomb threat, off all things. Chin held high and eyes forward, the elder Shimada paid no mind to the raindrops that found their way inside his hood and collected on his tidy beard. His expression was regal as ever, even when hidden beneath the shade of a hoodie, and if he was anxious about walking towards a potential bomb the archer did not show it.

 

The chirp of Hanzo’s comm broke McCree from the staring he had not meant to indulge in, and he watched as Hanzo unconsciously tilted his head to the microphone hidden behind his left ear. “Shimada here.”

 

“Status, please.” Winston’s gruff, simultaneously reassuring voice smoothed over the shared comm. McCree made the universal motion for “after you”, and Hanzo took the reins.

 

“We are crossing Hungerford Bridge now. Mark is roughly 300 yards or so to our one o'clock. No sign of unrest as of yet.”

 

The smack of lips drizzled over the comm, and McCree realised Winston was snacking between status updates. Cheeky. “Intel suggests an anti-omnic terrorist group is behind the bomb threat, but that the tip-off came from a third party. The local law enforcement is already converging on the area. Talks of reinstating Overwatch are proceeding… as well as they could be, given the circumstances. But do not volunteer your working for Overwatch, and do as the police say if they corner you. Athena will patch you into the Met's comm now.”

 

“Acknowledged,” Hanzo finished sharply, hand to one ear as London-accented voices spilled out into the shared comm. McCree listened in, mirroring the archer’s pose and listening intently for any developments. Years of Blackwatch training held back the apprehension of walking into a potential terrorist attack, but the cowboy felt outmatched by the confidence Hanzo walked with.

 

“Still haven’t found the bomb, huh,” McCree hazarded, waiting for a lull in the radio chatter before addressing Hanzo. He ‘hmm’d in response, one hand ghosting over the steel banister that ran down the steps at the end of the bridge. Hopping down it with the anxiousness he had kept well-hidden until now, McCree tailed Hanzo in his race to the Eye.

 

“They’re cordoning off the area, look,” Hanzo hushed, grabbing McCree by the shoulder of his jacket, and inclined with his head. Police tape lined one side of the plaza holding the London Eye aloft, and several bobbies were ushering a thickening crowd of people through the remaining side before blocking it off.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, McCree watched one bobby hold his shoulder higher to talk into his radio. The man’s voice came in through Athena’s patched comm. “Eye sealed off. All passengers on the ride have been evac’d. Second unit are moving to the park next door to cordon that off now. Bomb squad is en route…”

 

“No idea where the bomb is, still. Even there’s even a bomb at all,” McCree grumbled. “Could just be a distraction while someone ‘causes a ruckus elsewhere.”

 

“Possible,” Hanzo conceded, scanning the rooftops. The gunslinger saw the way Hanzo dragged his eyes over vantage points, watched for the unguarded areas of the pier framing the Eye, and McCree bit his bottom lip as he realised what Hanzo was planning.

 

“Gonna scout?”

 

“Going to scout.” Hanzo adjusted his quiver and bow bag straps, tightening the hold they had around his torso, and set off for the pier- and stopped. The archer looked exasperated, hurried, his eyes going between McCree’s face and somewhere below that.

 

“What is it, McCree?”

 

The gunslinger looked down. On its own accord, McCree’s hand found the edge of Hanzo’s sleeve. Feeling somewhat like a deer in the headlights, the gunslinger swallowed and damned his ‘act first, think later’ instinct. “...Uh, be careful.”

 

Hanzo’s eyebrows furrowed. “I am always careful,” he uttered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, before leaping over the side of the pier to shimmy long the underside.

 

“...Yeah, sure,” McCree rubbed at the back of his neck, hiking up his hood further before mixing into the crowd. The police forced them further down into the high street, outside the shops that had already been locked down. Just a precaution, muttered several different voices around him. Trying to convince themselves it was likely a hoax. McCree had witnessed too many explosions in his lifetime that were “likely just a hoax” to fully convince himself otherwise. 

 

His eyes darted back to the Eye, framed against the grey and darkening clouds. The encroaching night hid Hanzo well against the steel beams; McCree lost Hanzo’s silhouette several times against the almost black sky. “You up top?” he asked after several moments of held breath, unable to find the archer’s figure again.

 

“Yes,” rang Hanzo over the static, voice slightly breathless. “I spotted a pair on my way up. Two men, mid-thirties, hoodies up and loitering about suspiciously.”

 

“You sure you ain't talkin' about us?”

 

Hanzo tsk’ed over the radio, and McCree grinned wryly. “They are talking amongst themselves... now talking over a radio. Anxious. Skittering about. I’ve reason to think they are connected to the bomb threat.”

 

“Where are they?”

 

“Rooftop of the adjacent apartment building. Looking down on the crowd, seeing how they move. One of them has a hand on something in his right pocket.”

 

“Yup, pretty suspicious. I’m movin’ to intercept.”

 

“No need. I can take him out from here.” McCree trailed his gaze upwards and squinted until Hanzo’s outline came into focus- his bow was raised, ready and at full draw, the small blue of his arrow’s glow the only giveaway for his plan. McCree knew exactly how tall the London Eye was, having walked past it several times during their excursion, but only now with Hanzo stood on the peak of the highest capsule did the ferris wheel feel impossibly, dangerously high, and McCree's chest twisted in worry.

 

“We don’t know if they ARE plannin’ anything, darlin’. Let me intercept, ‘n you cover me. Same as always, yeah?”

 

“One more moment… just let me see what they do.” McCree saw Hanzo’s arm come down from full draw just slightly, enough to still be ready to fire at a moment’s notice. The comm was frustratingly silent for a full minute, with McCree’s attention drawn to the other line that the police spoke over.

 

“One of them has received a call. Perhaps orders.” McCree jumped when Hanzo’s voice, clear and pulled taut like his bowstring, came into his left ear. “Passing information to the one with his hand in his pocket…”

 

“--we have a confirmed incendiary in one of the Eye capsules, exact location unknown, evac all public immediately--” A stranger’s voice rang in McCree’s right ear, and the gunslinger swore his heart stopped. The crowd around him dimmed into silence in an instant.

 

“Hanzo, bomb confirmed. Get down, right now.” He hated how strained his voice sounded, panic clear yet restrained. He could not afford to start a stampede. “It’s somewhere on the Eye. Get down! _Hanzo_!!”

 

The London public streamed haphazardly around him, jostling his shoulders, and McCree stood resolute against the torrent as Hanzo’s silhouette made no attempts to move. 

 

“Man has removed something from his pocket-- _kuso_!!” 

 

Hanzo let loose a single arrow. It sliced through the air not nearly fast enough and passed over the street, clearing the air above the plaza just before--

 

The capsule next to Hanzo’s exploded into several tons of fire and steel, sending glass and debris into the street in a huge arc--

 

And one beam, a handrail from the inside, jettisoned into the air and caught Hanzo across his right shoulder, and McCree heard his pained shout in his left ear over the screaming of the crowd--

 

The screaming died out, McCree’s heartbeat replacing it as the blood rushed through his ears, watching as Hanzo stumbled from the force and straight off the edge of the aging ferris wheel and into the icy Thames, and _shit _that was a long fall--__

____

__

 

The gunslinger ran, fighting the current of panicked Londoners who were holding him back from Hanzo and he didn’t know if he was stunned, unconscious, drowning in the dirty waters of the river, and walking into a bomb threat with so little intel was so STUPID, why did they even come here--

 

McCree only came back to himself as he neared the edge of the pier, the police’s attention elsewhere, and ran with all the panic of a bat out of hell to the dock. Hanzo was there, clinging to the underside of the pier, coughing dirty water from his lungs with his face scrunched up in an expression of pain with McCree had never seen on him before.

 

“Status, agents!! What’s going on?!” Winston’s voice, authoritative and booming over the comm, went unanswered as McCree grabbed for a nearby lifering and threw it to Hanzo. It landed a foot short of the archer and Hanzo reached for it sluggishly, arms carving through the water about as well as a blunt rock through cheese, and McCree let out a breath he did not realise he was holding.

 

“Bomb was triggered, Hanzo got caught in the blast. Retreating to the safe house.” McCree was on autopilot, years of Blackwatch training taking over as he multitasked between updating his superior and dragging Hanzo to the dock. He heaved Hanzo onto the pier in one last adrenaline fueled pull and immediately heaved the archer’s left arm around his shoulders, taking Stormbow from him as he supported Hanzo’s weight as best he could into the nearest alleyway.

 

“Is Agent Shimada conscious?” Athena cut in, presumably filling in for Winston as he relayed intel elsewhere. McCree looked down- Hanzo was awake, staring straight ahead with his teeth grit together, and was trying to straighten himself on shaking feet.

 

“Yeah, he’s awake. Probably hurtin’ though. Where’s it hurt, darlin’?”

 

Hanzo shivered, strained against McCree’s hold, and did not answer. More than hurt, more than cold, Hanzo looked angry. More than angry- Hanzo looked downright _furious_. The archer snatched Stormbow back and slung it over his injured shoulder, hissing into the front of his Thames-sodden hoodie.

 

“Agent McCree, retreat to the safehouse. Treat Agent Shimada and lay low. Those are your orders until things die down.” Winston’s voice was strained in that guilty tone he took on whenever someone was hurt on a mission, and McCree nodded to himself.

 

“Will do. McCree out.”

 

The safehouse was a half mile from the Eye, further down the banks of the Thames- an apartment in a centuries old maisonette- and it seemed to McCree the longest half mile he ever had to walk. Hanzo’s weight across his shoulders gradually became lighter, until they reached the apartment door and Hanzo was finally able to support himself. McCree’s hand drifted to the small of his back as Athena unlocked the door for them.

 

“Hanzo, hold on--”

 

“Don’t touch me.”

 

The acid in Hanzo’s voice would put the world’s most venomous snake to shame. “Hanzo, c’mon. I need to check you over.”

 

“Do NOT--” Hanzo strode into the room and shed his bow, quiver and jacket in seconds, throwing them off his torso as if they were burning him, dripping Thames water onto the carpet. He spun on one foot, wavering just a little, and McCree held his hands up in surrender as Hanzo pointed at him. “Do not.”

 

“Yeah. Okay, alright. M’ sorry.”

 

McCree had been on the end of this behaviour before- Hanzo was ashamed. Embarrassed. Angry at his inability to prevent what had happened. He expected nothing but perfection from himself, and anything less was unacceptable. In the face of McCree’s surrender, the cowboy watched Hanzo start to deflate.

“...Go take a shower. I’ll update Winston.” McCree need not have bothered giving the order, as Hanzo was halfway to the ensuite when he turned to look. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the wood on its hinges, and McCree let out the sigh he had been bitten back. The last of the adrenaline left his system and the cowboy shuddered, thanking his lucky stars Hanzo at least had the strength to be angry.

 

“Agent McCree here,” he patched into his left ear, removing his long-dead right ear piece. He moved about the apartment as he spoke, picking up the discarded bow and arrows before carefully sitting them against the wall. “We’re back at the safehouse. Hanzo’s gone for a shower. Doesn’t seem too incapacitated. What’s the situation at the Eye, Winston?”

 

“Winston is currently dealing with local authorities.” Athena’s neutral tone was a welcome change from the tension cutting through London, and McCree tuned into it as best he could. “There were no casualties in the blast. The London Eye was irreparably damaged and will likely need rebuilding. The third party who tipped the police off is assisting in the investigation, and one man was found nearby with an arrow through his hand. The arrow had pinned a detonative device to his palm and he has been taken in for questioning.”

 

“Has he now?” McCree huffed a small chuckle, shaking his head. Even though he knew Hanzo could shoot the thread out of a needle from a hundred metres, the curl of pride in his chest sat warm and reverent all the same. 

 

“He might have slipped away were it not for Agent Shimada’s implicating him. Please let him know once he has calmed down.”

 

“Dunno when that’ll be, sugar. Guy looked mighty angry.”

 

“You have no further duties for a few days, Agent McCree. Take however much time you need to relay the news. Might I also suggest making sure Agent Shimada's mental wellbeing is taken care of?”

 

The AI’s tone brooked something resembling genuine worry. “I got a plan, thanks Athena. McCree out.”

 

Athena logged off her side of the comm with a small chirp, and McCree headed for the kitchenette. Reaching into the back of the highest cupboard, one he knew Hanzo could not reach without difficulty, his hands fumbled until they clamped on a hidden metal box still in its factory wrapping, and a ceramic teapot- a _kyusu_ , McCree reminded himself. Kanji that McCree had only just learned how to read emblazoned the front of the box in gold and stuffed under a gold ribbon around it was a messily printed sheet of paper. The gunslinger unfolded it, and read aloud to himself to calm his frayed nerves.

 

“How to prepare _hojicha_ …”

 

In all fairness, McCree reasoned with himself, all tea was made a similar way. Surely there were not too many ways to incorrectly make a tea. But here he was in London, a tea lover’s paradise, living with a man who prided himself on drinking only the best Japanese brews. As a coffee lover, having the instructions might have been the only thing saving him from Hanzo’s ire.

 

By the time McCree heard the shower turn off and the creaking of floorboards as Hanzo puttered around in the ensuite, the tea was ready. Steaming gently into the apartment air with two ceramic cups laid out on the living room table. McCree did his best impression of a man not completely frazzled by the day’s events as the ensuite door opened and steam billowed out, parting to reveal a Hanzo dressed in Overwatch-issued tracksuit trousers. His gaze was on the carpet, hands clutching the towel draped around his neck, hair wet and draped over his right shoulder.

 

“...The detonation did not seem to hurt me much, other than the blow across my shoulder… and my pride. No broken bones to my knowledge. I am fine.”

 

Trust Hanzo to get straight to the point. McCree huffed a small little laugh and stood, looking at the impressive bruise that was starting to flourish against Hanzo’s collarbone. “Yeah, you got mighty lucky. C’mon, sit down a spell. I debriefed us already, so you just relax.”

 

Hanzo did as he was told with rare compliance. Likely from having shouted at McCree earlier, the cowboy figured. McCree saw Hanzo’s keen eyes set on the _kyusu_ as he rounded the sofa, mouth dropping in a small show of shock.

 

“Is this…?”

 

“ _Hojicha_ , yeah. Picked some up from that import shop we passed the other week. Was gonna surprise ya with it tomorrow.”

 

Hanzo picked up the cup delicately, as if it might break under his grip, and inhaled deeply. Some of the stress he carried in his taut shoulders seemed to dissipate with his exhale. “Why tomorrow?”

 

McCree should have expected that question, only half did, and his smile took on a sad edge. “It’s your birthday.”

 

The cup stopped halfway to Hanzo’s mouth as he considered the information. Carried on not a moment later, raising the cup to his lips and sipping gently. “So it is.”

 

McCree knew the world stopped for no one, and certainly not for either of them to celebrate a birthday that Hanzo probably did not care for anyway, but the gunslinger found himself wishing the tea was given under better circumstances nonetheless. “I know this ain't exactly the right teapot for hojicha, but it's all I could get. You probably got all this stuff back at base anyway, but I figure this could be your away pack. To take on missions, and such.”

 

“...I don’t, actually.” Hanzo took a few more measured sips of the tea, savouring the luxury. “I have _sencha_ at the base, and a regular kettle. I have not been able to find _hojicha_ or ceramics. This is an excellent set, too, not at all cheap.”

 

“Well, Overwatch pays me a reasonable amount to put my life on the line. Figure I might as well spend it on expensive Japanese ceramics.”

 

Against all odds, Hanzo smiled. A tight knot in McCree’s chest unraveled. “Thank you, McCree. I will take good care of it.”

 

“Even if you break it, we can try that gold-mending thing.” McCree sauntered over to the window and cracked it open, pulling a cigarette from his pocket with the other hand.

 

“ _Kintsugi_? If you wish to melt down that gaudy belt buckle, then perhaps we could.”

 

The gunslinger choked out a dramatic little cry, hands flying to cover his pride and joy. “I’d rather die, Shimada!”

 

The sound Hanzo made was not quite a laugh, but definitely more amused than the ‘hmm’s and ‘hmph’s that he usually made. McCree took his first drag of the cigarette as Hanzo finished the first cup, wasting no time in pouring himself another. The silence between them was something close to serene- as serene as a near miss with a terrorist group got- and it wasn’t until Hanzo finished the second cup that McCree saw him gear up to speak again.

 

“So. The Eye.”

 

“Ah, right. Well, no one got hurt save for you. And guess what? The perp you saw on the roof got nicked.”

 

“Is that so.”

 

McCree flicked the last stub of his cigarette out the window and joined the archer on the sofa, splaying himself out at the opposite end. “Yup. Guy was found with a bomb trigger pinned to his hand. Arrow straight through both of ‘em.”

 

He saw Hanzo let his words sink in, eyeing the kyusu as if to pour himself another cup. Instead the archer raised a hand to his bruised shoulder, fingers hooking over the curve of his muscles to hang on, and McCree sat forward.

 

“Pretty handy with that bow.”

 

“Not handy enough. I was a second too late… I should have shot him as soon as he produced the trigger.” 

 

“Hey, you wanna play the blame game? I shoulda let you take the shot earlier.”

 

“I would have been acting on pure suspicion. I could not have shot him in good conscience without confirmation that he was the bomber--”

 

Hanzo’s hands were raised, working around in little circles as his brain worked into a tizzy again, and McCree raised his own hands in a second show of surrender.

 

“All I’m sayin’ is, things went to shit pretty quick, and there wasn’t much we could do given the circumstances. You still got a bomber carted off to jail, no one was hurt, nothing broken that can’t be fixed. By Blackwatch standards, that's a win.”

 

The archer stopped, and forced a breath through his nose. Out through his mouth. McCree noticed the hitch in Hanzo’s expression as he breathed out. “You hurtin’?”

 

“...Sore, yes.”

 

An idea formed almost immediately in the forefront of McCree’s mind. “Alright, do me a favour? Sit backwards on that chair.” And before Hanzo could answer, McCree jogged from the room. 

 

“Backwards?” came Hanzo’s voice from the living room, and McCree almost forgot to answer as he fumbled in the bathroom’s cabinet.

 

“Yup. Make yourself comfy.” From the back of the cabinet he pulled a biotic canister, one of only four left (his own fault- McCree’s preferred way of combat was up close and personal, and many a canister had been cracked by his bedside in the aftermath of a fight), a single rubber glove and a tub of moisturiser. Hanzo was indeed sat backwards on a cushioned dining chair, arms folded in a makeshift pillow for his chin. He turned to watch McCree crack the biotic canister and set it on the floor beside him, the golden glow bouncing off his still damp skin, and the gunslinger stopped to watch Hanzo in turn.

 

Giving the archer a moment to back out if he so wished, the gunslinger watched his face curl in a soft sort of confusion. “...McCree?”

 

“Gonna touch ya, that alright?”

 

It was in that moment McCree realised all the pitfalls in which this plan could stumble. He watched Hanzo furrow his brow, consider it, enjoy the healing bask of the canister, and eventually pillow his cheek against his arm.

 

“...Yes.”

 

 _Phew_. Pulling the glove over his metal hands and smearing a liberal amount of moisturiser between his fingers, McCree hovered his hands just above the curve of Hanzo’s shoulders before gently lowering them to give the archer’s skin a featherlight touch. His thumbs rubbed and dug into the valleys of Hanzo’s shoulder blades, and the archer stiffened.

 

“Used to do this for Genji, back when he was gettin’ used to his cybernetics. Angie taught me how since she wasn’t always there to do it for him. I know what I’m doin’.” Hanzo relaxed minutely under his touch, seemingly sure that McCree would not accidentally hurt him, and McCree breathed out his worry.

 

“I have not had a massage in many years,” Hanzo said, after a moment of held breath where he forced himself to calm down on the exhale. “And not one that didn’t hurt.”

 

“One of those sports massages, huh?” The gunslinger was pleased with the muscle memory his hands retained, dragging his hands up over Hanzo’s shoulders and gliding into the curves of his neck. He thought Hanzo might have shuddered- still cold from the Thames, he assumed.

 

“Yes… not fun.”

 

“And this massage?” McCree punctuated his words with a rub up Hanzo’s spine, thumbs dug in at either side as they blazed the trail up the contours of Hanzo's back, mapping out the well-sculpted topography with his fingertips. Underneath his touch, Hanzo's shoulders shrugged with a little huff.

 

“Hmm. Don’t fish for compliments.”

 

The gunslinger laughed, and the massage continued in silence. He was careful to avoid the mottled bruise making its way over the expanse of Hanzo’s collar bone, aware of his metal hand and how much pressure he put down with it, hoping that the rubber glove made up for the asymmetry of his touch. Hanzo wasn't complaining, and knowing the archer's fondness for picking up on any shortcomings, McCree could only take it as a good sign.

 

“I am sorry,” Hanzo said, voice strangely thick, after several minutes. “For shouting at you.”

 

“Hey, I’ve had my pride wounded many a time. Sometimes, you just gotta skulk into a corner and lick your wounds. I getcha.” McCree made his tone as light and genial as possible, finding that Hanzo did not tense under his touch as he feared.

 

“I do not ‘skulk’.”

 

“My mistake,” McCree readily agreed, if only to spare Hanzo from another argument about whether or not creeping about on rooftops constituted as skulking.

 

They lapsed easily into another silence. The rain outside pattered against the glass of the window, the only noise in their quaint London apartment, with the occasional soft noise of the moisturiser between McCree’s fingers as he worked up and down Hanzo’s back. At some point, Hanzo shut his eyes, and McCree trailed his hands back up to the archer’s neck.

 

“Hey, no sleepin’. Can’t let you doze in this chair, your back will come out even worse than it is now.”

 

“I am not sleeping,” Hanzo replied, in a voice laced with a heaviness that spoke volumes of his exhaustion. “Just… thinking.”

 

“No thinkin’, either. You think too loudly.” McCree’s hands stopped on Hanzo’s shoulders, now mostly dry of moisturiser, and considered where to put them next.

 

“Oh? And what can you hear of my thoughts?” Hanzo turned and regarded McCree, leant back into his hands as if he were a cat that demanded pets, and McCree knew where he should massage next.

 

“You’re thinkin’ about what you could’ve done to stop today.” Ghosting his fingers once more over the curve of Hanzo’s neck, McCree’s fingertips parted a trail through the strands of Hanzo’s hair, rubbing in small but heavy circles over the shaved underside until they rested in the longer strands at the top. “Thinkin’ of all the ways it coulda turned out differently. Forgettin’ that hindsight is a perfect twenty-twenty, and that you put a stop to a terrorist cell today and survived a bomb blast.”

 

McCree doubted Hanzo was listening. The archer’s head was putty in his hands, leant back into his touch with an expression on his face that made him look ten years younger. The image burned pleasantly into the gunslinger’s brain.

 

“You did good today, archer.”

 

His only response was a whisper of an exhale from Hanzo, and that did McCree just fine. His chest curling with someone else besides pride, McCree watched as Hanzo’s head became heavy in his hands under his ministrations- he was _dozing_.

 

It took little convincing to coax a half-asleep Hanzo into his bed beside the window. McCree made up a hot water bottle for the bruise migrating over Hanzo and laid it gently on the archer’s skin, stifling a chuckle as the dozing archer curled an arm over it protectively. Hanzo leaned his face into the streetlight coming through the glass, the orange glow dappled with the rain that clung to the window, and McCree let himself indulge in the sight for a moment.

 

When he had taken the London assignment, a wet and grey three months in the city to scout for terrorist cells, he wondered how strained his friendship with the archer could become. Hanzo was a flighty, haughty man on the best of days, and if the friendship went sour the months would have dragged by as slowly as a turtle with no legs. When the opposite had started happening, way back in December with the failed Owl mission, McCree had let a tiny spark of some forlorn feeling burn in his chest. And now, looking at Hanzo’s face bathed in the mottled streetlight, McCree was sure that the twisting, pulling, all-encompassing ache in his chest was not from fear, but the hope of something more. 

 

McCree looked to the clock on the wall- ten minutes past midnight. His gaze fell on the archer one more time.

 

“ _Tanjyoubi omedetou_.”

 

And he decided he was ready for the challenge that was trying to court Hanzo Shimada.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow another fic! Might end up making this a small series, if I can think of more ideas. Feedback always welcome!
> 
> Quick translation guide:
> 
> Kyusu- japanese teapot.  
> Hochija- tea, unsurprisingly. This kind is roasted rather than steamed.  
> Sencha- also tea, but this is more of an instant kind. Hot water straight over tea leaves.  
> Kintsugi- a method of repairing broken pottery/ceramics/etc with gold. The idea is to make something more beautiful because it has been broken and to show it as part of the object's history.  
> Tanjyoubi omedetou- a slightly more informal version of "happy birthday".


End file.
